


Bravely, patiently

by thehandofathief



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehandofathief/pseuds/thehandofathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is drinking with Eames and remembering Mal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bravely, patiently

When Arthur first met her she was introduced as someone's wife, nothing more. Maybe it was because it was easier than to begin trying to describe her. See, she was beautiful, no, she was something else but it's difficult to name. You should know that she made her own shampoo, a blend of oils and honey that meant her hair always smelled sweet and dark and rich, like blackened earth after a bonfire, sodden with something heavier than rain. But that's not good enough either, it's too many words and she was sharper than all that. Her skin smelled of orange blossom, Arthur had buried his face in her neck once after a night of good wine and he was surprised, he'd expected jasmine. 

Her eyes had mirrors set behind them so they caught the light, even if it was only weak starlight in a thick sky. Her hair fell about her face when she laughed. She would sing to herself, sometimes, always a blend of French and English because she understood the limitation of language but was not resigned to it. Once, in late summer, the afternoon grew cool so she borrowed Arthur's sweater and drew her hands inside the sleeves. Dom had smiled when he saw her, he never thought to be jealous. Arthur couldn't imagine loving a woman like her in that way, so careless and loose.

Arthur finds himself telling Eames these things but catches himself and stops short. Eames doesn't press, leaves Arthur to fall into silence, moving only to open another bottle of beer on the edge of the table. Last time they met, Arthur asked Eames where he was from and his answer was simply, "London", as if the word alone meant anything. As if a city that could house both Whitechapel and Mayfair could be defined by a single word. 

He didn't say her name often, not even in his own head. She would chastise him for such silliness, she'd tell him he was being ridiculous and lean into him, slightly, pressing their arms together in a show of tender solidarity. 

Arthur was still in the military when they met, already deep in the Dream-sharing project but it was Mal who saw his potential as a point man.

"Gymnastics or ballet?" she asked.

"Both, actually."

"I knew it! Dom couldn't see it in you," and then she leaned close to him, "but I can." 

They ran wild in their shared dreams, both made of long lines and grace. Mal was an adventurer, an explorer and Arthur was sure that there was some other world where she was grown thin but not weary, where she scaled unknown heights with a hand drawn map or sailed further than imagination would stretch. Her children were captivated by her as she spun tales of freedom and discovery.

Dom was an architect because he saw things as a series of patterns, for him there was no pause for breath between conception and realisation and a mind like his was rare and exceptional. Mal watched him as he sat in uninspiring classrooms raising whole cities with a handful of words and she fell in love with him. She, lover of beauty, she who dreamt of pulling ancient cathedrals from the Seine found herself charmed by his plaid and leather. 

Arthur wants to tell Dom that he loved her all wrong, that he missed the hurricanes and volcanoes in her head and all the delicate pieces of glass and baubles hung in her chest. Did he not see the way she looked when she slid the knife back inside the block after preparing dinner? Did he not understand what it meant when she bought a book of Rimbaud in the original and wrote her own translations for him in the margin? 

Arthur ran with Dom out of a sense of loyalty that he still couldn't shake. Dom had taken his hand, a few nights after Mal's death, and he had thanked him. Nothing more but he cast a spell that night that Arthur couldn't break.

"He's such an arsehole."

Arthur looked up at Eames, they'd been sitting in silence for so long that he'd almost forgotten he was there. "What?"

"Cobb, he's an absolute bloody arsehole." 

"Why'd you say that?"

"Fuck me, Arthur, if you want a list we'll be here all fucking night."

Arthur couldn't help but smile, Eames' language always took a dive after a few drinks. "You're a filthy drunk, Eames."

"Take me back to the hotel and I'll show you filthy." 

When they got back to the hotel room, the city was all lit up blue and yellow and Arthur stilled. He remembered how Mal had looked out over Paris once and she told him that it seemed to her so various and so maddeningly incongruous that sometimes she could barely stand to look. And how he'd had to remind himself that she was someone's wife when he touched her neck and found a racing pulse and a spread of warmth. 

Eames took off his shirt, he always rid himself of his clothes whenever he could, and soon he was down to his boxers. In the bathroom he ran cold water through his hair and left it dripping. Arthur didn't notice any of this until Eames walked past him and stood in front of the window, tan lines and deep scars hidden in the half dark, tattoos reduced to shadows, and he seemed to Arthur huge and nameless in the unremarkable hotel room. The mere fact of him was solace.

Arthur smoothed his hands over the hard pathways of Eames' back and then down the soft contours of his belly and breathed him in. Eames rolled his head back and rested it on Arthur's shoulder, leaned into him and took hold of his wrist with one hand, reached back and touched fingers to his throat with the other. How many people looked at Eames and knew that he was gentle? 

That night they went slow.

As Eames slept, Arthur thought of something Mal said once. He'd had dinner with her and Dom and he was talking about how Mal and he were opposites and that's why their marriage worked so well. After he went to bed Mal leaned in close to Arthur and said, "Dom was right. To be a lover is to be one half of a whole. There is nothing better than to feel no longer absolute but infinite. Love, Arthur, is vast and boundless, it is adventure for the brave of heart. We must seek to destroy the lie that love is weakness." Arthur simply nodded and committed her words to memory in case one day they came to sound like truth. 

Eames wasn't next to Arthur when he woke up which usually meant he'd left during the night. But this morning Arthur found Eames smoking a cigar on the balcony in his underwear, his sunburnt skin crowded with ink and welts and one badly sewn bullet hole and the sight of him filled Arthur with relief and delight. Eames started slightly when he noticed Arthur, Arthur who would later realise it was because he was the only person Eames felt at ease with. 

"Oh bloody hell, I meant to go get you your coffee before you woke up." Eames went to get up but Arthur stopped him, pressed both hands flat against his chest.

"Stay." He kissed him, casual and clumsy and felt Eames smiling against his mouth. "What?"

"Must you question everything, Arthur?"

"It's my job, Mr. Eames."

Until he met Mal, Arthur had vowed to never fall in love. After he met her, he never thought it would be with someone else.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write something for Mal. She was lovely, after all.


End file.
